The way he said that word it meant something.
"Know what that means?" said Lamb. "It means getting drunk again, as often as you like; it means living on earth again, forgetting how religious you ever were out in space, how you were converted the first trip out. It means forgetting how non-gravity feels on your guts. It means a lot. It means losing friends, and the hard good times brawling at Phobos-Deimos Base.
"It means leaving this rocket." The men were silent.
"I want to thank you. You, Hillary. And you, Slop. And you, Ayres, for signing on after your brother died. And you, Thompson, and McDonald and Priory. And that's about all. Stand by to land!"
We landed without fanfare.
The crew packed their duffles and left ship. Cap lingered behind awhile, walking through me with his short, brisk strides. He swore under his breath, twisted his small brown face. After awhile he walked away, too.
I wasn't a war-rocket anymore. They crammed me with cargo and shipped me back and forth to Mars and Venus for the next five years. Five long years of nothing but spider-silk, hemp and mineral-ore, a skeleton crew and a quiet voyage with nothing happening. Five years.
I had a new captain, a new, strange crew, and a strange peaceful routine going and coming across the stars.
Nothing important happened until July 17th, 2243.
That was the day I cracked up on this wild pebbled little planetoid where the wind whined and the rain poured and the silence was too damned silent.
The crew was crushed to death inside me, and I just lay here in the hot sun and the cold night wind, waiting for rescue that never seemed to come.
My life blood was gone, dead, crushed, killed. A rocket thinks in itself, but it lives through its crew and its captain. I had been living on borrowed time since Captain Lamb went away and never came back.
I lay here, thinking about it all. Glorious months of war, savage force and power of it. The wild insanity of it. I waited. I realized how out of place I was here, how helpless, like a gigantic metal child, an idiot who needs control, who needs pulsing human life blood.
Until very early one morning after the rain I saw a silver speck on the sky. It came down fast — a one-man Patrol inspector, used for darting about in the asteroid belt.
The ship came down, landing about one hundred yards away from my silent hulk. A small man climbed out of it.
He came walking up the pebbled hill very slowly, almost like a blind man.
He stood at my air-lock door. I heard him say, "Hello—"
And I knew who it was. Standing there, not looking much older than when first he had clipped aboard me, little and lean and made of copper wire and brown leather.
Captain Lamb.
After all these years. Dressed in a black patrol uniform. An inspector of asteroids. No cargo job for him. A dangerous one instead. Inspector.
His lips moved.
"I heard you were lost four months ago," he said to me, quiet-like. "I asked for an appointment to Inspector. I thought — I thought I'd like to hunt for you myself. Just — just for old time's sake." His wiry neck muscles stood out, and tightened. He made his little hands into fists.
He opened my air-lock, laughing quietly, and walked inside me with his quick, short strides. It felt good to have him touch me again, to hear his clipped voice ring against my hull again. He climbed the rungs to my control room and stood there, swaying, remembering all the old times we had fought together.
"Ayres!"
"Aye, sir!"
"Hillary!"
"Aye, sir!"
"Slop!"
"Aye, sir!"
"Conrad!"
"Aye, sir!'
"Where in hell is everybody? Where in hell is everybody?" raged Lamb, staring about the control room. "Where in the God-blamed hell—!"
Silence. He quit yelling for people who couldn't answer him, who would never answer him again, and he sat down in the control chair and talked to me. He told me what he'd been doing all these years. Hard work, long hours, good pay.
"But it's not like it used to be," he told me. "Not by a stretched length. I think though — I think there'll be another war soon. Yes, I do." He nodded briskly. "And how'd you like to be in on it, huh? You can, you know."
I said nothing. My beams stretched and whined in the hot sun. That was all. I waited.
"Things are turning bad on Venus.
Colonials revolting. You're old-fashioned, but you're proud and tall, and a fighter. You can fight again."
He didn't stay much longer, except to tell me what would happen. "I have to go back to Earth, get a rescue crew and try to lift you under your own power next week. And so help me God, I'll be captain of you again and we'll beat the bloody marrow out of those Venerians!"
He walked back through my compartments, climbed down into my heart. The galley. The computation. The Slop, Ayres. Larian. Belloc. Memories. And he walked out of the airlock with eyes that were anything but dry. He patted my hull.
"After all, now — I guess you were the only thing I ever really loved…"
He went away into the sky, then. And so I'm lying here for a few more days, waiting with a stirring of my old anticipation and wonder and excitement. I've been dead a while. And Cap has showed up again to slap me back to life. Next week he'll be here with the repair crew and I'll sail home to Earth and they'll go over me from seam to seam, from dorsal to ventral.
And someday soon Cap Lamb'll stomp into my air-lock, cry, "Rap her tight!" and we'll be off to war again! Off to war! Living and breathing and moving again. Captain Lamb and I and maybe Hillary and Slop if we can find them after all this time. Next week. In the meantime I can think.
I've often wondered about that blue-eyed Martian dancing girl with the silver bells on her fingers.
I guess I could read it in Captain Lamb's eyes, how that turned out.
I wish I could ask him.
But at least I won't have to lie here forever. I'll be moving on — next week!
Undersea Guardians.
Amazing Stories (1944)
All of us have a purpose in life; among us are those whose duty is to act as guardians for those who have a mission to perform.
The ocean slept quietly. There was little movement in its deep green silence. Along the floor of a watery valley some bright flecks of orange color swam: tiny arrow-shaped fish. A shark prowled by, gaping its mouth. An octopus reached up lazily with a tentacle, wiggled it at nothing, and settled back dark and quiet.
Fish swam in and around the rusting, torn hulk of a submerged cargo ship, in and out of gaping holes and ripped ports. The legend on the prow said: USS Atlantic.
It was quite soundless. The water formed around the ship like green gelatin.
And then Conda came, with his recruits.
They were swimming like dream-motes through the wide dark-watered valleys of the ocean; Conda at the head of the school with his red shock of hair flurried upright in a current, and his red bush beard trailed down over the massive rib of his chest. He put out his great arms, clutched water, pulled back, and his long body shot ahead.
The others imitated Conda, and it was very quietly done. The ripple of white arms, cupped hands, the glimmer of quick moving feet, was like the movement of motion pictures from which the sound-track has been cut. Just deep water silence and the mute moves of Conda and his swarm.
Alita came close at his kicking heels. She swam with her sea-green eyes wide-fixed and her dark hair spilling back over her naked body. Her mouth twisted with some sort of agony to which she could give no words.